he's cold and she burns
by the birds were flown
Summary: In which Jack Frost is a wannabe musician, and Elsa Arendelle just can't help but fall for his guitarist charm. AU. [Jack x Elsa. Jelsa]


_he's cold and she burns_

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**Summary: **In which Jack Frost is a wannabe musician, and Elsa Arendelle just can't help but fall for his guitarist charm.

**Prompt: **I've been listening to Walk the Moon and The 1975 way too much. And I ship Jelsa so much. This is just a result of my mixed up feelings and yeah.

**A/N: **This is a drabble? No? It's a trial, you know, just testing out what I can do for Jelsa. This may or may not be just a one-shot, or I could write a sequel, who knows. Enjoy :)

**Disclaimer: **Don't own anything at all :)

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He plays songs about sex and getting drunk, the kind of music that makes you crave to travel Las Vegas. But she wasn't one for the Indie type of music, yet she somehow ends up tangled in a mosh pit listening to him sing about kissing girls in his new futon and making love behind his old beat up Chevy. She doesn't drink either, but she's had two shots and it's all gone to her head – and maybe that's why she found him so _goddamn_ attractive that night.

Finishing their set, he sends the crowd an old mischievous wink, the one that's got girls screaming his name and worshipping the very ground he walks on. She swoons despite herself – and she still blames the vodka that courses through her veins. He sees her, all bright eyed and braided hair, standing out from the crowd of brunettes with dyed black locks and pink highlights. And there's a tug in his stomach that he just can't ignore.

When the crowd fades and the music is all slow and jazzy, she finds herself perched on a stool by the bar, another shot of strong vodka ready to be downed. He joins her, messy white hair falling all over the place, and a grin that perfectly suits the blue in his eyes. He smells like musty sweat and nicotine, and stood for everything her father would have never approved of.

It's silent for the first five minutes, and the bartender gets him a glass of god knows what, proving him to be a regular at the bar. He drinks it, the alcoholic drink chilling his burning throat. She watches him from the corner of her eye, and smiles at his very existence. She's never seen such an exotic rockstar before; they're all tattoos and half shaved hair – he's not.

"Elsa."

She speaks softly, and he turns to her with a dazzling smile that could charm just about anyone. He sees vixen in her eyes, and the batting of her eyelashes pulls him in. He takes one more drink out of his glass, before responding.

"Jackson."

She moves one seat up, one seat closer to him. Their knees are touching and she's wearing a sleek pencil skirt that hugs every curve of her body. He feels himself get hot – but he's not the only one. The sleeveless shirt he has on shows of his pale white arms that sported toned muscles, the kind guitarists have – and it makes her go crazy, blood boiling with lust.

"It's quite a mouthful to say."

"My friends call me Jack."

"Can I?"

"Yeah."

They talk for hours end about his music. How his songs were lovely, despite the innuendo they portrayed. She laughs when he attempts to be funny – he's socially awkward, she can tell, but his personality has that charm that would catch anyone. He's sheepish and embarrassed, she's shy but curious. It's her first night of freedom – from screaming parents, abusive boyfriends and an annoying sister – and she would've never wanted to spend it any other way than getting to know this wannabe rockstar.

It's three am on the dot, and the bar closes with only the one bartender left tending to the two of them. Chairs are stacked on tables, and the music fades out into nothing. She grabs her coat, and he's got his guitar case with him. They walk out with the breeze of the dusk smelling like pine cones and winter. She smiles because she loves it, and he does too.

"Where do you live?"

He asks, setting down his guitar case, and lighting up a small cigarette.

"You're a bit too forward."

"You can hitch a ride with me, you know? It's too late for someone as pretty as you to be walking alone."

"You think I'm pretty?"

"Very much."

She blushes underneath the pale glow of the moon, and he blows white ghostly smoke to the air surrounding them. She coughs, he apologizes, and she dismisses it. Instead, taking the stick from his hand, she sucks it in, and breathes it out, sparks tingling in her fingertips the moment their hands touched.

"Don't let me be the bad influence your father hates."

He chuckles, she grins.

"Oh trust me, you are."

They exchanged words, and continue to share the cancer stick. Ashes fall to the tarmac, the only proof they were ever there that night. They get through a whole a packet before they finally decide, it's time to go. He lets her into his car – an old beat up Chevy, _go figure_ – and turns on the radio to some more indie. The 1975 plays, and he sings along. Somehow, she prefers his voice over Matt Healey's.

"_You're cold and I burn, I guess we'll never learn._"

"What's so good about being a rockstar?"

"Who said I wanted to be a rockstar?"

"Well, you play regular at a club, hoping to get some recognition, and you sing about sex and falling in love – pretty much sums a rockstar up to me."

"You're wrong."

"Excuse me?"

"I don't want to be a rockstar; I just want to perform."

"Really?"

"I want to perform in front of a crowd of millions, but I don't want to be famous. I don't want them to recognize my name, or ask me for a photograph."

"Oh."

"But we all can't have exactly what we want. So, this is the best gig that I've got that's closest to my dream. And I think it's even better now.

"Why so?"

"Because I met you."

He kisses her in front of her doorstep, the lights to her sister's room is open, and the noisy engine of his truck plays like the soundtrack of their lives. His hand is wrapped around her hair, and she tastes like vodka and vanilla, so sweet and so bitter all at the same time. She tips her toes because he's too tall, and he bends down because she's too short.

They don't exchange numbers, and the kiss ends without a goodbye. He leaves with the engine running loud, and the orange light adorning the dark streets of Burgess. She fumbles with her keys before she gets the door open, and she comes in all breathless and red in the face. She craves chocolate, and more alcohol – but she craves for his touch even more.

She thinks she may be too conservative to fall for a guy like him, but there's innocence in his eyes and passion in the way he sings that just gets her. And she wants to see him, one more time – and many more after that.

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**A/N:** I always feel obligated to write an author's note at the end of each fanfiction, though I rarely have much to say. Idk why but oh well. You can see some WTM and The 1975 references in this fanfiction, they're great bands that's why. I hope you liked that :)


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